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I thought of my ‘faculty of poetry’ As of the eye The bream or white-bait showed In its hysterical dance of death When the receding tide Left it asleep In a shallow pool on the shore. Why did I fail to take it? Was I strangely compassionate Or merely afraid to touch The jerking spasm of flesh With the still eye? Or was it I on the shore In the shallow pool, left by the tide, Engaged in that mystic dance of death, Twenty years before?
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